


Prodigal

by Shadow_Chaser



Series: Letters Home [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 3-way blending of AC3 TURN and historical facts, Alternate History, Gen, History blending, Post Episode: s02e05 Sealed Fate, Takes place around Sequence 8 of AC3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 07:58:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4779767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadow_Chaser/pseuds/Shadow_Chaser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benjamin Tallmadge takes his General's words to heart as well as Nathaniel Sackett's final words of wisdom and considers more sources in order to catch the culprits who would kill Washington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prodigal

**Author's Note:**

> A one-shot crossover between "Assassin's Creed 3" and "TURN: Washington's Spies." Takes place right in the beginning of Sequence 8 of AC3 when Connor discovers Benjamin Tallmadge has come to visit Achilles at the Davenport Homestead. Tallmadge's POV. Takes place after Episode 5 of Season 2 of "TURN." This is done in a similar style like my BBC Robin Hood/Assassin's Creed crossovers.

The Davenport Homestead had not changed, even after all of these years as Benjamin Tallmadge slowed his horse down to a trot, taking in his surroundings. Even though he had only been here once before, when he was just a child, he distinctly remembered its natural beauty. It had also been in the autumn, so the leaves had been at their most spectacular. The one thing that had changed was that he noticed more houses and a semblance of perhaps townsfolk that milled about, some working, others carousing with others. As he trotted by on the worn dirt paths towards the main house on the Homestead, he nodded cordial greetings to the people, some of whom seemed mildly surprised to see him while others gave him friendlier smiles.

Even with the lack of the signature hat of the dragoons on his head, and the blues of the Continental Army covered by the dark traveling cloak he wore, he supposed that he still looked distinctive. At least to the townsfolk. To the British and Loyalist patrols he had dodged riding past Boston and northward towards the Homestead, he was certain he looked like a well-paid merchant traveler or even a messenger of sorts. He carried a small white flag on the off chance that he had been stopped by Tories, but thankfully did not have to use it, especially around Boston and its surrounding suburbs.

The last time he had been at the Davenport Homestead; he had been a child, mostly wide-eyed and exuding the innocence of a child, but also beginning to understand that his father was somehow involved in mysterious work. It wasn't until he had been sent to Connecticut for schooling that he had truly understood the dual lives his father had been living up to then.

The Assassin Brotherhood existed in many facets of society, and he had been approached to join the school's “club”; until the night that he had been prepared to officially join them in an induction ceremony. Cries of murder and mayhem rang through the corridors and streets that Yale University inhabited and he had rushed to the club's house. He had discovered that the Yale chapter of the Brotherhood had been slaughtered by an unknown assailant. The dying faculty adviser had whispered to him to run, to hide because of one of them, a former Assassin turned traitor by the name of Shay Cormac was slaughtering all of them on the orders of the Assassins' ancient enemies, the Templars.

A few days later he received an urgent missive from his father to lay low and not breathe one word of any connection to the Assassins. During the holiday break that year, he had gone home to Setauket and his father had explained everything to him about his dual life as an Assassin for the Brotherhood and raising a family. After a few nights of solemn contemplation, he had decided that he would not join the Brotherhood – too dangerous to see enemies everywhere and realizing that neither the Brotherhood nor the Templars held the politicking of the Colonies and her Royal Overlords in particular value. His father had taken his decision with good grace, but Ben had reassured him that he would keep their secrets, if not for the years of loyalty and service he knew his father had sacrificed for him and his siblings.

Instead, he joined the Patriot cause soon after and found himself advancing through the ranks. The fact that he had been promoted and made into General Washington's personal head of intelligence was an irony that was not lost on him. But he had delved into the seedy underworld wholeheartedly, albeit with a lot of help from the late Nathaniel Sackett, but it also made him more aware of the strings being pulled between the dominant Templars and the fledgling Brotherhood. His father's Brotherhood had all but died after Shay Cormac betrayed them and slaughtered a majority of the leadership years before, but Ben was beginning to hear rumors of a man dressed not in the Continental Army's blues, but rather a variation of whites with a beaked hood always falling shadow across his head.

Surprisingly it had been his father who had urged him to contact Achilles Davenport, the former Mentor and leader of the Order. They both had thought him dead after Cormac's slaughter, but it seemed that the elder Assassin had survived. So he had sent a missive to Achilles a few days ago, about wanting to see this mysterious man that General Israel Putnam held in high regard and esteem.

Putnam had a reputation of being a very dour man, grim, gruff, and highly unpleasant and hard-to-please. Ben had only met him once and even he had been a little put-off by the man's unlikable demeanor. He demanded the best out of his troops and while his calls were unconventionally rallying and able to get the men to march upon rows and rows of well-trained Redcoats, he brook no room for argument from others in his battlefield plans. The fact that this mysterious man had Putnam's highest regard was most definitely a source of curiosity for Ben – aside from the obvious fact that it had been Putnam who had forwarded a letter of intent found on General Pitcairn's body talking about an assassination plot against Washington. Ben would be damned if any harm came to his General.

The traveling cloak was a little stifling in the summer heat, especially over his uniform, but Ben was used to such discomforts. This far north was far more pleasant in terms of summer climate than where they were camped in Connecticut. He knew that in a couple of months, the sweltering humidity would turn Connecticut and its surrounding areas into a veritable swamp of stifling stickiness. At least the smell of the sea breeze from the Davenport Homestead gave the illusion of dampening the early summer heat.

He nodded cordial greetings to the townsfolk he passed by, noting the muted surprise and caution some of them displayed. He supposed that they did not get many travelers like himself, or were either inherently mistrustful of outsiders they did not know well. He did not blame them as he long recognized the signs of those who wanted to be left alone by Tories or by the British soldiers who were quartered with them. Abe's infrequent letters – besides the occasional numbers he requested through the General – spoke of how the people of Setauket were holding up with the British quartered in their homes. His former hometown was a veritable hotbed of Loyalists and Patriots, but many of them feared for their lives and livelihood. That scare tactic made him angry and to see it this far north...these men and women did not need to be scared of those who menaced them.

“Ho there, traveler,” a man with a full thatch of hair and thick beard lumbered towards him, a genial smile on his face. He carried his ax with a purpose, the nearby stumps of what used to be a tree almost completely felled and cut for wood-burning purposes. The lumberjack took a swig of a waterskin that had been tossed at him by what looked like his partner who also took a moment to rest.

“Hello,” Ben greeted with a small nod, “headed to the Davenport Homestead.”

“Ya here to see the Old Man or Connor?” Ben knew it was probably the training Sackett had instilled in him, plus after working so long as the General's spymaster, that he could tell the lumberjack was sizing him up as a potential threat. It told him many things about this lumberjack; but the main thing was that no one in this community brook for any harm to come to either the Old Man, who had to have been Achilles, and Connor – the man General Putnam was praising up and down the Boston coastline.

Either this Connor must have done something incredible to earn the loyalty of the townsfolk for them to be this protective of a man who had been practically called a fearless fool by Putnam, or it was Achilles' doing. He suspected the former rather than the latter. His father had said that Achilles received a limp years and years ago that prevented him from undertaking many missions himself.

“General Putnam wanted me to give his regards for his actions on Breed's Hill,” he did not think it was harmful to mention any of that, but at the same time, lifted his traveling cloak a little so that his Continental blues were showing as well as the specially packaged pistols Putnam had insisted the lad receive as a gift for his bravery and courage in the face of impossible odds. “Couldn't risk shipping it it by land convoy, too many patrols.”

“Aye,” the lumberjack seemed satisfied and nodded curtly before giving him a wider and friendlier smile, “Connor resides in the Homestead up yonder. Take the right fork to stable your horse. Watch out for the turkeys, they're vicious this time of the year. Can't wait for the fall when they're all plumped.”

Ben laughed at the lumberjack's statement before reaching down and extending his hand for a shake, “Many thanks, sir. Major Ben Tallmadge if you would be so kind.”

“Major, eh?” the lumberjack seemed surprised before giving a small shrug and shaking his hand with a firm, beefy grip of his own, “the name's Godfrey. That shrimp over there is Terry.”

“Hey!”

Ben only nodded a greeting at the slighter man who had a full bed of red hair before straightening on his horse and spurred it to walk once more. He continued along the well-worn path, the green leafy trees parting soon to reveal the familiar red bricks of the Homestead and turned right on the indicated path. A stable soon came into view and Ben pursed his lips for a moment, noting a flock of turkeys milling about. Mindful of Godfrey's warnings about their ill temperament, he delicately scattered them by walking his horse into the flock and let nature take its course as they ran into the bushes and nearby grass, clucking and making disgruntled noises. Satisfied, he dismounted and let one of the stable boys take his horse, a twinkle of amusement in the boy's eyes having seen what he had done.

“Many thanks sir, couldn't even try to get Master Connor's horse out to try that. Vicious creatures, wouldn't even let me near the stables,” the boy said with a gaped-tooth grin, “I think they're smarter than they look.”

“It's all about taking the opportunities you're given,” Ben said before leaving the boy with his horse and headed up the path to the main entrance to the Homestead.

He arrived in short order and knocked, absently smoothing down his hair in a habitual nervous gesture while he did so. A few seconds later, he heard the door unlatch and a weathered old face peered out. Ben could not help a smile that appeared on his lips at the sight of Achilles, looking just about the same, except for the white hair of age and slightly more wrinkled countenance about himself. At the same time, he also caught the narrowing of Achilles' gaze as he seemingly recognized him before his eyes widened a little in surprise.

“Tallmadge...Junior,” Achilles greeted and Ben's smile grew a little wider.

“Sir,” he nodded in confirmation, “it's been a while since we last met-”

“You were only just a wee lad come for the autumn festival with your father,” Achilles said before opening the door wider and gesturing for him to enter.

“Thank you sir,” he entered, taking off his traveling cloak as Achilles closed the door behind him and folded it across an arm. He did not miss the other man's distinctive up and down look at his uniform.

“Dragoons,” Achilles surmised and Ben nodded. He knew that the uniform of the Continental Army's Dragoons were similar to most uniforms save for the distinctive feathered high-crown hat and only a few buckles and the way his sash stood out. Since he was not wearing his hat with him to make himself less conspicuous on the road, the fact that Achilles was able to easily point out his uniform, made him pleased that the former Mentor of the Assassin Order had not lost his edge after all these years. It also confirmed for him that he and Connor were paying a lot of attention to the war against the British, enough to be on top of the politics of this day and age.

“Your father was much the same when he was with us. Fearless, always at the forefront of danger, but never as reckless as some of my former apprentices. He always had a level head and keen eye,” Achilles looked up at him, his sharp brown eyes twinkling a little, “much like you have done in your capacity as the head of Intelligence for the Continentals.”

Ben blinked, part of him instantly going on guard at the words, the other part of him immediately thinking of ways to deny the news. His promotion to the Head of Intelligence had been a very quiet affair, General Washington still using General Charles Scott's capacity in the front lines as the 'official' source of Intelligence. He understood the deception, especially after his lessons with Sackett, so the fact that Achilles was able to discern it so quickly alarmed him.

“Relax, boy,” Achilles smiled congenially, his white teeth splitting the darkness of his skin, “I knew that as soon as Connor reported his findings to General Putnam, they would find their way to your hands. Why do you think I sent a letter to Putnam to give his pistols to Connor by way of you. I knew you were going to want to investigate any threat on General Washington's life yourself.”

“But-”

“Who do you think taught Nathaniel Sackett the secrets of subterfuge?” the older man said, tapping his cane a little impatiently.

“Sackett was a member of the Brotherhood?”

“One of the surviving ones after the purge,” Achilles replied, “though I am saddened to hear the news of his passing.”

“He was a good man,” Ben grimaced against the tears that threatened to form in his eyes. He had looked up to Sackett as a mentor of sorts, and had been almost beside himself in grief after finding out how badly the two of them, along with the General himself, had gotten played by Major Andre's hand. The assassin had never been caught, even after the scouts he had sent out reported back that he had disappeared into the murky fog-filled night.

“Aye, he was lad,” Achilles patted him gently on the arm before guiding the two of them to his parlor, “let me see if I can find Connor, but before that, anything I can get for you?”

“Uh, no sir,” Ben ducked his head a little, “I only wished to deliver the pistols to Connor as a gift and also let him know that my intelligence network might have picked up Thomas Hickey's trail in New York City. I would be best if I guided him there.”

Achilles nodded congenially, a twinkle in his eye that somehow Ben knew he was keeping a humorous secret of sorts. “As you wish,” the old man said before glancing to the floor, his brow wrinkling a bit, “I think I know where Connor went. Forgive me lack of hosting duties for the next few minutes. The young boy sometimes likes to have his head in the clouds.”

Ben smiled a little at the statement as Achilles limped away, headed towards the kitchen. He heard the sound of a kettle being put to stove and some cabinets being opened as well as china being set. He considered telling Achilles that he needed no refreshment, but held his tongue. Even if it was not for him, perhaps the older Assassin wanted something to wet his palate. The sounds died away as Achilles' cane thumped across the wooden floor boards and several creaks later, all but disappeared.

Ben took the opportunity to set his cloak down and drew out the pair of pistols General Putnam had given to him, still lingering with the faint odor of Cuban cigars. He supposed that the smell would never go away. He set the pistols on one of the tables next to his cloak before moving to the kitchen, hearing the faint burble of the kettle boiling its water. Achilles had set out at least three cups and fresh tea was already in the pot. He looked around and cast for a cloth before taking it and lifting the pot off of the fire and poured a generous amount of hot water into the tea pot. At least when Achilles came back, he would have something to drink.

Ben was no stranger to serving those in higher positions than he, having done so as Washington's aide-de-camp before he was promoted to the head of Intelligence. Even then, it was considered a common courtesy and respect for a junior officer to vacate his seat or even serve those higher ranked than he was. It built character and there was value, especially in someone of his position, to learn secrets that others spilled freely and not realize that he was the one gathering intelligence. That was one of Sackett's first lessons and it had been extremely valuable.

He heard the familiar tapping of Achilles' cane emerge from somewhere in the house and the man himself appeared a few seconds later, looking rather annoyed and weary. However, he saw him brighten at the tea that had been steeping in the pot and moved towards it, pouring two cups and handing him one. Ben took it gratefully, sipping it and realizing that he was rather thirsty after his long day of traveling. However, he had taken his second sip and paused-

It wasn't much pounding of footsteps that alerted Ben to someone else approaching, but rather, the presence of someone rather powerful that made him look up in time to see a Native...no, a half-Native judging by the shape of his face and features, burst into the room.

“Or you can admit you are wrong,” he had a surprisingly youthful voice, but there was an arrogant gruffness in it, his expression flat.

Achilles shook his head, “Oh child, please, you've killed two men. One more salesman than soldier. You're going to have to try a lot harder than that to impress me.”

Ben watched in mute and slightly amused fascination as the much younger man took his words as an affront and seemingly puffed his chest out, “Is that so, old man?” This young man who had the built and gait of a hunting predator, but the seemingly light-footed-ness of the legendary stealth of the natives he had heard so much about had to be Connor. “Well, perhaps we should step outside, I would gladly demonstrate how easily I could trounce-”

Ben quietly cleared his throat and finished his second sip of his tea as Connor was finally aware of his presence in the room. He nodded a greeting at the bewildered young native.

“Connor,” Ben did not miss the smugness in Achilles' voice, “this is Benjamin Tallmadge. His father was one of us, no need for secrecy. I think he has something he wants to say.”

Ben instantly recognized the change in Connor's demeanor, the sudden attentiveness, even the way Connor was trying to read him in the silent way he knew very well. His own father had taught him some of the Assassin Brotherhood's ways when he was younger, before he had considered not joining the Brotherhood. Connor was a quick student, ready and willing. In many ways, Ben knew that whatever General Putnam had told him, whatever stories of heroism and fool-hardy bravery that he had thought were just that, tall tales, it had been true. Connor had been the one to kill General Pitcairn in the middle of the Battle of Breed's Hill.

The newest plot to kill General Washington was not a lie then. And this time, Ben knew that he would not fail like he had failed Nathaniel Sackett. No one else would die under his watch.

“Achilles tells me you've uncovered a plot, to murder the Commander-in-Chief...” Ben started...

 

~END~

 


End file.
